


oh my love, it was a funny little thing

by philthestone



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, and their BABIES, this was written post 4x03 bc like what kind of ICONIC episode i will never get over it, very briefly, why do i love writing kidfic so much and why havent i yet posted this old fic. who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: This,” says Dad dramatically, splaying his hands in front of him and deepening his voice so that it sounds super goofy. “Thisis the story of how mommyshotme in theleg.”“AWESOME!” yells Maya, bouncing in her pillow fort seat.“What?” gasps Benji, looking stricken. “Did youdie?”“I – what,no– Benji, I’msitting right here–”





	

**Author's Note:**

> aaah this is an oldie, written immediately after the beautiful coral palms part 3 episode, because truly i will be an old woman and still start sporadically crying abt that legendary scene. anyways, posting it here now bc i tidied it up a bit and ive stopped procrastinating.
> 
> reviews are jake and amy as the world's most embarrassing parents. also, title's from joanna newsom's milk eyed mender, bc PureTM.

Treena Nolan is not in the habit of scheduling parent-teacher meetings. She takes pride in the fact that the children placed under her care each day for most of the week are taught to resolve conflicts without trips to the principal’s office, without detention or suspension or even the dreaded retraction of recess privileges. She is a modern, progressive, child-supporting elementary public school teacher, and she has, until this day, not yet been confronted with a situation that required parental intervention.

Granted, Ms. Nolan has only been a full-time teacher for the past four and a half months, but she is firm in her convictions. Children’s conflicts and inappropriate behaviour can usually be solved through a quiet conversation about feelings and some meditation time in the reading corner.

“Honey,” says Barb Feldman, a middle-aged woman who wears beaded necklaces and psychedelic-patterned clogs to school, well-beloved third grade teacher to all. “ _Honey_. You can’t seriously think you’ll avoid calling parents forever.”

“I can _try_ ,” insists Treena, nursing her cup of tea. “Children are perfectly educable in matters of behaviour, and – and, well –”

“Parents can be _awful_ ,” agrees Barb, after a gulp of her own coffee; an unspoken understanding that Treena thinks all teachers might share (she’s not sure – she’s only been a teacher a very short while). Barb shatters her moment of relief at companionship, however, with one simple utterance: 

“One of these days, though, you’re gonna get a problem child. Sorry, kid.”

Treena wishes sincerely that one of these days, she could actually understand Barb.

Unfortunately, as Barb predicted, sometimes children say things that Treena cannot fathom were absorbed from anywhere but the home. _Not_ that she has problem children. She doesn’t _believe_ in problem children. She has a classroom decorated with stationary full of woodland animals and superheroes, her desks set up in little circles, and a whiteboard instead of a chalkboard. The term “problem child” is, quite frankly, _not_ child-first language. 

But _sometimes_ – sometimes. _One_ time, actually, this is the first time – to her great reluctance, the dreaded scheduling of the Parent-Teacher Conference must happen.

Wait, no. This is a _meeting_ , not a conference. Much less official and intimidating, Treena tells herself. Super chill. _Very_ casual.

Right.

The thing is, Treena continues in her internal monologue, the morning of the parent-teacher interview that was very carefully scheduled over email – the _thing_ is, little Maya has thus far into the school year been one of Treena’s brightest students. Always enthusiastic, sometimes a little _too_ much so, the sort of little girl who fills up spaces with her personality. She always hands in her assignments on time (her journals are always filled with the loopiest version of childish handwriting and multiple nicely-coloured drawings); she keeps her pens and pencils neatly arranged on her desk because apparently, her mother has told her it’s important to be organized; she listens attentively during morning reading circle and always shares her snacks with _all_ of her classmates; and her greatest aspiration in life at the tender age of six and a half is to be able to blow a bubble with her bubblegum. She may have a bit of an overactive imagination, but Treena is usually one to encourage such things, lest she accidentally stunt the organic growth of a child’s spirit. 

But – overactive imagination or no, there’s only so far certain daydreams _should_ go, and this is … well.

At t-minus two hours before parent-teacher meeting, Treena admits to herself, not without a bit of trepidation, that she doesn’t really know that much about Maya’s parents other than brief glimpses when they come to pick her up after school. At t-minus one hour, she’s pacing back and forth in front of the white board, having re-written the day’s date over an excessive twelve times. Finally, at t-minus thirty minutes, she’s chewed her lipstick off of her lip and has, with great force of spirit and a strong cup of chamomile, resolved to create a mental list of everything she _can_ remember about Maya’s parental figures: 

A. Her father, a man who is usually sporting a leather jacket and Maya’s smile, picks her and her younger brother up from school more often than her mother does. Is she close with her mother, Treena wonders? Maya talks about her a lot, but sometimes children’s perceptions of a situation _cannot_ be wholly trusted. 

B. She has two aunts, one of whom speaks rapid Spanish on whims (“‘Cause we oughta know how to speak it, Ms. Nolan,” Maya tells Treena, when she asks about it casually one day, and offers no further explanation), and another who once declared loudly that she was actually the Queen of Sheba (Maya informs Treena later that this is mostly true). They show up on alternate days when Maya’s parents don’t and, decidedly, make a few of the other parents uneasy. Perhaps _they_ could be the prime suspects for Maya’s sudden untoward comments, Treena thinks. 

C. Maya is convinced that her parents are superheroes (“because they catch bad guys,” she explains simply), a statement that was made declaratively and with great conviction when the class was going through the curriculum-required “what do you want to be when you grow up” day. Treena doesn’t wholly believe in “what do you want to be when you grow up” day, but she does know that the curriculum doesn’t encourage “superhero” as a profession. She wonders if Maya’s parents _do_. 

D. Finally -- according to Maya – her glasses are “heridedantary”. 

Treena straightens the flashcards on her desk and looks up at the slight tapping at the door.

“Ms. Nolan?” A pretty woman with dark hair and wide, familiar expressive eyes is peaking her head around the door, wearing a slightly nervous smile.

A voice sounds behind her, from somewhere in the hall.

“Hey, hey look – they put up their lion drawings over their cubbies, Ames –”

The woman’s head turns to look at something over her shoulder, her voice filling with what Treena can only call exasperated affection. “Jake, _focus_ –”

Maya’s father appears in Treena’s line of sight, his smile far less nervous than his wife’s. Neither of them are wearing glasses, Treena can’t help but note, but they _are_ dressed for the occasion in simple, professional button-downs and pants. Certainly, they don’t _look_ like questionable people.

“Hi, Ms. Nolan! We’re here for our conference.”

“It’s just a meeting,” says Maya’s mother, fingers curling around the strap of her purse and turning to look at Treena, her eyes as wide and expressive as ever. “Right? Conferences are the ones that are scheduled for all the parents, aren’t they, I read –”

“Maybe you’d both like to come and sit down,” says Treena quickly, getting up from her desk and straightening her skirt, motioning towards the chairs she’s set up on the other side. This is fine. It’s just a simple conversation. It’s not even as though Maya’s in _trouble_ , Treena thinks, swinging her hands slightly by her sides. She’s just concerned that the stories she tells originate in the home environment –

But, no. That’s a completely valid concern, even if these people seem completely harmless.

She sits down across from the two of them – Maya’s mother perched in the left chair with a ramrod-straight back and ankles crossed neatly under the floor, and Maya’s father leaning forward, his fingers tapping against his knees.

“It’s nice to meet you – Mrs. Peralta, Mr. Peralta –”

“It’s Captain Santiago, actually –” starts Maya’s father.

“Mrs. Peralta is fine,” says Maya’s mother loudly, her eyebrows creasing just slightly and her ankles twitching as though she’s holding herself back from kicking her husband’s foot.

“Right,” says Treena, tucking her hair behind her ear and putting on her largest smile. They seem quite friendly, really – Maya’s mother has her hair coiled into a somewhat severe bun, but she has a sweet, if a little nervous, face; Maya’s father is glancing around the room, almost as though out of habit, but his eyes are warm and kind. Treena takes a small breath and sits up a little straighter; she is, after all, _determined_ that this meeting will go off without a hitch. “I just wanted to have a quick conversation about –”

“Is Maya alright?” interrupts her father, fingers tapping even more erratically than before, the concern sudden and sharply evident in his voice.

Treena stumbles, her planned speech very suddenly derailed.

“Yes, she’s fine –”

“Has she done something wrong?” This from her mother, the crease between the older woman’s eyebrows only growing.

“Oh, no, certainly n – I mean, perhaps she could have – oh, please –” Treena catches herself and instinctively reaches a hand out, because the expression on Maya’s mother's face has transitioned from “slightly concerned” to “abject and irrevocable worry” in the span of 0.005 seconds. 

Treena wonders if all parents are like this.

“She’s –” Mr. Peralta hesitates, the concern still there. His hand seems to come up reflexively, scratching at the greying hair behind his ear. “I-is she having trouble focusing in class?”

“Oh, no, she’s very attentive,” says Treena quickly, and notices the visible relaxing of his shoulders. _Good job_ , she tells herself; Barb always says to _read_ the parents. “It’s just – usually, of course, I would be the first to encourage children to tell stories, to utilize their wonderful imaginations.” Treena feels her smile flicker slightly. “Unfortunately, Maya’s stories can sometimes be … inappropriate. For the school environment.”

There’s a minute moment of silence. And then, something Treena was _utterly_ unprepared for:

“Jake! Did you show her Die Hard after _everything_ we discussed, I cannot _believe_ –”

“What! _No_ , I didn’t, I swear, what kind of – she’s six!” 

Maya’s mother is gripping the strap of her purse once more, her knuckles whitening, a note of hysteria creeping into her voice. Her father has in turn sat up far straighter in his seat, and the both of them together quite suddenly strike Treena as so familiar in their mannerisms that she falters once more; she can recognize the nervous clenching of fists that Maya does during spelling tests, or the erratic leg-jiggling she lapses into when she’s waiting her turn before show and tell.

“Exactly! She is _six_ , _exactly_ , you –”

“I _didn’t_ , they’re still on the Spy Kids kick –”

Treena clears her throat, somewhat desperately. 

“Please – um, Ms. Per – Captain Santiago –”

“Yes,” manages Maya’s mother, looking stricken, her cheeks pink to match her blouse. “I am so _so_ sorry, Ms. Nolan, we try our utmost not to expose them to any sort of inappropriate material, I have _no idea_ where she might have –”

“No no, wait, hang on,” interrupts her father, hands now gripping at the knees of his khakis. “What exactly did she say?”

Treena clasps her hands and tries not to flush.

“Ah – well. She – she kept insisting that … there’s really no other way to put this, um – well, that her mother – _you_ – had – _shot_ her father. Once. Before.” She gestures feebly at the two of them, who are blinking at her in silence. Treena seizes the chance to elaborate: “Which is, of course – I mean, I couldn’t understand why a child might imagine something like that up, especially not why she’d insist so – so _vehemently_ that it was the truth – so I thought I’d talk to you, get to know you – I was concerned that perhaps there was some sort of – Mr. Peralta?”

Treena can attest to the fact that she has read the schoolboard decorum handout so many times that she can recite it backwards and forwards. She is up to date on all her required training videos, and would be able to describe in detail the colour of the "Frequently Asked Questions: How To Deal With Disruptive Parents" website.

(It's cerulean.)

Treena is not, in any way, shape, or form, prepared for _this_.

Mr. Peralta is laughing. _Laughing_. So hard that he’s once again slipping down in his seat. 

“Oh, _no_ ,” moans Maya’s mother, clapping her palm to her forehead. “Ms. Nolan, I am _so sorry_ –”

“I – I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,” says Treena, thinking miserably that this is _so_ far from her prepared speech that she might as well just throw caution to the wind and admit her befuddlement. “It’s – what?”

“Of course it’s true,” gasps Mr. Peralta, recovering from his laughing fit. “D’you want to see the scar?”

“ _Jake_!”

“Right, sorry, upper left thigh, that’d be awkward –”

“It’s –” Captain Santiago sighs, her hands raised in front of her not unlike what Treena had done when they’d first walked in. “We both work for the NYPD, and sometimes the kids hear stories and they – they get excited about them –”

“It’s a very dangerous line of work,” says Maya’s father, nodding in a fashion that is anything but serious. Belatedly, Treena realizes that her jaw is hanging open. She closes it.

“Are you – she was telling the _truth_?”

“I completely understand how that was inappropriate for a classroom setting,” says her mother, nodding emphatically. “We’ll –”

“We’ll have a chat with her,” says Mr. Peralta, and at least it’s sincere; he’s still smiling broadly, the laugh-lines running through his cheeks and making him look absurdly young. “It won’t happen again, Ms. Nolan.”

“We _swear_ it won’t,” agrees his wife, nodding even harder, but there’s something in the twitch of her mouth that makes Treena thinks that she, too, is fighting back a smile. 

“I –” Treena looks between the two of them; her first ever parent-teacher conference ( _meeting_ , she corrects herself), and she – this. _This_. She’s never having a parent-teacher meeting again. “Oh,” says Treena feebly. “Oh, I see. Well that’s – good to know.” She swallows, the words jumping out of their own volition. “How – I mean –”

“So there was this mob boss,” starts Maya’s father immediately, leaning forward in his chair, “and –”

“Was that everything?” asks Captain Santiago smoothly, cutting across her husband’s enthusiasm. She is smiling, now, but it’s a gentle thing. Treena thinks perhaps she’s feeling a bit apologetic; _rightfully_ so, to be honest. 

“Ye – yes, that was, um, everything. As long as it doesn’t happen again, I just, I didn’t think it was particularly appropriate, the implications of violence, I mean –”

Immediately, they both grimace, their faces crumpling comically. 

“I _completely_ understand,” says Maya’s mother. “We’ll definitely talk to her. So – um –”

“Yes,” says Treena. “Ah – that was everything, you can, um – it was very nice meeting you.”

She can hear them once they get out into the hall again – after Captain Santiago’s gushing, _It was so nice to meet you!_ and Mr. Peralta’s enthusiastic handshake – their voices light and cheerful.

“Look, look – I wanna check out their lions, come on, I bet Maya’s is the best one –”

“Hers is the one with the rainbow – oh, I remember, she did this assignment with Holt!”

There’s laughter, fading down the hall, and Treena slumps back in her chair. 

_That’s it?_ Barb texts back immediately, after Treena has finished composing a long, rambling message detailing her woes. _Hon, that’s nothing. They seem like sweethearts_.

Treena decides she needs a very strong cup of tea. And, also, that she is _definitely_ never having a parent-teacher meeting ever again, come hell or high water.

 _Ha!_ texts Barb. 

(Treena thinks that maybe, just maybe, she understands Barb now.)


End file.
